You Can't Run Away From It
by shosier
Summary: I wish you could do magic!" Janie had shouted in a fit of temper. How exactly should a muggle mother respond to her daughter – especially when she wishes the very same thing?


Author's Note: I debated for a long time whether to write this scene from George's or Annie's point of view. I just couldn't figure out how to squeeze both viewpoints into the chapter (#53, if you're interested). For the novel (George & Annie: an Unofficial Biography), I went with George's because it was crucial for their daughter to learn about Annie's past, especially her role during the war – and Annie would never be the sort to talk about herself this way. Here's Annie's experience of the same event – which is just as important, I think – confronting another of the critical issues that must arise in a muggle-wizard relationship.

* * *

_You Can't Run Away From It_

Fall 2011

Annie looked up to see George in the doorway. His dark silhouette swum a bit before her eyes.

"Don't wait for us for dinner…. We might be gone a while," he said softly, then turned to go down the stairs, pulling a confused Janie along behind him.

Annie continued to sit on the edge of her bed, staring out the window at the forest beyond, furious with herself for still being so upset. It was beyond ridiculous, that Janie's comment affected her so deeply. It was inexcusably immature for her to sit up here in her bedroom, pouting about it.

Yet… she could not deny it had cut her to the quick to hear her own daughter utter the words to her face. The careless remark had taken her breath away, leaving her speechless.

The whole thing had started as a typical argument between them, the two hot-heads of the house. As usual, Janie resisted doing her chores without the aid of magic. It never mattered to her the rule against underage magic was a Ministry one, not just a household one. She didn't even have her own wand yet, for crying out loud. But she was always one for pushing boundaries, testing her limits. And as usual, Annie refused to budge an inch.

"I wish _you_ could do magic!" Janie had shouted in a fit of temper. "Then you'd understand how stupid it is for us to have to do any of this without it!"

Merrie had gasped from her spot at the table where she was folding a load of laundry. "Janie! Shut up!" she cried a moment later.

Joey poked her head out of the girls' room at the disturbance.

Janie had stunned herself as well. She stood there, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as if she couldn't believe she had said it out loud, either.

"The rules apply to everyone, Janie," Annie had mumbled, still reeling from the blow. "Go to your room, and we will discuss this later when we both are calmer."

Annie had then taken her own advice. Soon after her daughter had stomped up the stairs and marched into her room, slamming the door behind her, Annie had taken refuge in her own room, unwilling to demonstrably illustrate for her other daughters how hurt she had been by the comment.

_And here I sit, making it worse for them by hiding out up here,_ she chided herself. Why had she let Janie's comment get under her skin so? If only she could stop the angry tears from rolling down….

She shook her head vigorously and stood up. _Enough!_ she cried silently. _No more self pity. Time for you to act like the adult you presumably are, Annie_. She went to the doorway, and peeked downstairs.

Winky was in the kitchen, busy making supper. Merrie and Joey were still sitting at the table, whispering to each other, anxious looks on their faces.

"Do you think Mum's okay? Should we go up there and see?" Joey asked.

Merrie shook her head sadly. "We'd better leave her alone. Janie really hurt her feelings. She'll come out when she's ready."

Annie nearly choked to hear them talk about her so. She had not fooled them for an instant. And just as she predicted, she had made things worse by hiding here in her room like a child. She knew she had to prove to the girls that she was fine, before this whole stupid thing got blown even further out of proportion.

So why was she crying again?

_Damn it!_ she screamed in her head, angrily pressing her fists against her eyeballs. _Fake it, if you have to! Show them it doesn't matter! Show them some shred of self respect! Keep it together until… until…._

An idea suddenly lit into her head. _Until I can go for a run…._

Annie splashed cold water on her face. She quickly changed into her running clothes and trainers. Now that she had an outlet to look forward to, it was easier to fake a veneer of composure. She took a deep breath, then stepped out from the shadows of her bedroom.

"Can I do anything to help, Winky?" she asked as she trotted down the stairs.

Three pairs of concerned eyes immediately locked themselves on her.

"Oh, no Miss. Winky is got this in hand, Miss. Be ready in just a few moments, it will."

Annie bit her tongue to distract herself from the irritatingly pitying tone of the elf's voice. "All right, then. Girls, let's set the table for dinner, shall we? It'll just be the four of us tonight, I expect."

Annie's eldest and youngest daughters cleared away their school things and carried them up to their room. By the time they returned, Annie had distributed the place settings and Winky had brought the food to the table. As the four of them took their seats, Annie was determined to make light conversation.

"This is delicious, Winky. Isn't it, girls?"

Annie's daughters nodded and murmured their appreciation for the meal. Winky's smile looked a bit forced as she accepted their compliments.

"I must apologize for not helping you with dinner this evening," Annie said. "I don't know what came over me this afternoon, Winky. I guess I was more tired than I realized. I haven't napped like that in ages," she lied.

Three dubious pairs of eyes looked at her. Annie yawned noisily in an attempt to sell it.

It was no great surprise that the rest of the meal passed in silence. Annie, Winky and the girls always spent all day together at the school – there was no news to share. Dinner conversation usually revolved around George anyway, as the girls would report to him each night what they had learned, or he would share some funny story with them from work.

Plates were emptied in record time. The girls did the dishes without being asked. Meanwhile, Annie set the rest of the food in the oven to keep warm, waiting for George and Janie to return. Winky bid them goodnight and headed to her room.

"Are you going for a run tonight, Mum?" Joey asked.

Annie saw Merrie shoot her sister a warning look.

"Yes, love, I think I might," Annie replied softly.

"All right," she said. Then Joey threw her arms around her and hugged her tightly.

Annie bit her lip until it bled, and hugged her daughter gently in return.

"I'll put her to bed tonight, Mum," Merrie said, tugging her sister away from the embrace.

Joey cast an annoyed smirk at her older sister's presumption. "I can do it myself," she grumbled.

Annie watched them walk up the stairs together. Once they were safely in their room, she turned and dashed out the back door. She didn't bother stretching. She tore out of the garden and into the woods, away from civilization. The last thing she wanted to do was run into anything human.

After ten minutes of sobbing out loud as she ran, she at last succeeded in accomplishing what the entire afternoon spent in her room had failed to do: she had finally tapped the tears out, to her relief. Now she could begin the real work. Her mind was sharp and clear as she began to analyze the roiling emotions within.

She was not angry with Janie; that much was certain. Her daughter's thoughtless comment did nothing at all to lessen the ferocious love Annie felt for every one of her children, the overwhelming pride she took in their every accomplishment, be it magical or mundane. She knew in her heart every one of them was bound for greatness in their own way, and nothing gave her more pleasure than to see them all blossoming before her eyes.

She understood as well that her children faced unique challenges, considering the parents they had been born to. On the one hand, they were Weasleys: the latest generation in an ages-long line of talented, respected wizards, not to mention the direct descendents of several recently decorated war heroes. Great expectations were placed upon them by both their family and the magical world at large, and Annie's children had much to live up to.

On the other hand, unlike many of their peers, they were forced for the most part to grow up on the fringes of that magical world, if not completely outside of it. And they did so out of respect for the limitations of their mother. They knew they belonged to the magical world. Yet for all intents and purposes, they lived every day as if they were in the muggle one, all the while in full knowledge and view of the one they were destined for.

It wasn't easy for them. But Annie knew that her children handled living with one foot in each world – both the muggle and the magical ones – with grace and aplomb. Rarely did they ever stumble, forgetting which world they were in at any given moment. Almost never did they complain about the extra burdens upon them, through no fault of their own, that they carried for Annie's sake.

And while they were in no direct danger from the dark, malevolent bigotry that had haunted her and George in the early years of their relationship, it was no secret that pockets of discrimination against children like hers still existed. Already, they felt pressure to prove they were just as good as any pureblood wizard child, regardless of how often Annie and George assured them how unnecessary such a thing was.

She could never be angry at any of her children. Five more wonderful people with greater potential for success couldn't exist anywhere else. Her heart swelled with love and pride whenever she thought of them. And yet…

She was jealous of them. It was her horrible, shameful secret.

She had felt an envious longing for ages now – ever since that moment in the treehouse decades ago when she realized her future had already been determined by a fate that had denied her a gift no one else even knew existed. She was only seven years old when she had learned the crushing truth.

"You have to be born with it," George had told her.

As much as she had adored her magical twin friends, it had been a struggle sometimes to keep the jealousy at bay. To keep it from poisoning their friendship. And for the most part, she reckoned she had been successful. She suspected it was perhaps largely due to the boys themselves. They were always so careful not to make her feel inferior because of her limitations. Quite the opposite, in fact: George especially had always gone to great lengths to point out her special qualities, the unique advantages she enjoyed by growing up in a world of technology.

Annie had grown up in the muggle world, all the while knowing full well the existence of something different hidden alongside, something secretly special just beyond. But, unlike Annie, her children knew it was only a matter of time before they entered into the magical realm to participate in it fully. Not as a passive observer, like herself, but as fully capable wizards and witches.

She knew she was not the first, nor would she be the last person to be in this situation. Wizards had been marrying muggles for ages, and having families, just like she and George had done. Her situation was far from unique. Even now, she was not the only person she knew struggling with the challenges of parenting such exceptional children. Dean Thomas' wife Sarah was a lovely, sweet woman who, like Annie herself, lacked any scrap of magical talent. Jeremy Litton had married a witch who had been a year ahead of George at Hogwarts, and had a sharp sense of humor about the whole thing. There were a few other men and women, fellow muggles wed to witches and wizards, who she had become acquainted with over the years. George went out of his way to get together with them, providing Annie opportunities to socialize with people with whom she had such a bizarre thing in common.

And it helped… a little. But none of the others had known about the secret, magical world as a child, like she had: back when youthful naiveté instantly accepted the reality of magic. Nor had they struggled to understand, like she had, why she had been denied the gifts her friends took for granted. At most, the other muggle spouses seemed to feel a little resentful toward their significant others at not having been told the secret a little sooner – at an imagined lack of trust – but that was apparently as far as it went. They did not appear to harbor the envious feelings she did.

Added to this, Annie's children were the oldest of the bunch. The rest of the muggle parents usually spent time asking her for advice, rather than being in a position to offer any. As a result, Annie felt pressure to put on the bravest face whenever she was with them, offering encouragement and reassurance whenever possible.

She could always turn to the stack of books in their library on the subject: _A Muggle Mother's Guide to a Magical Childhood;_ _Discipline Without Wands; _and _What to Expect: the Toddler Years – Magical Milestones from Birth to Age Three_. She had dutifully read them all. She knew how to deal with accidental spell mishaps (wait calmly and patiently for the effect to wear off, and/or call for help), how to cope with levitating infants (tether child firmly, call for help), or the inevitable yet thankfully temporarily pyromaniacal toddler stage (mixed families always kept fire extinguishers near at hand… oh, and remember to call for help, when and if the opportunity presents itself – just not the local muggle fire brigade, dear).

None of them contained a chapter, not even a measly paragraph, about dealing with feelings of jealousy. About how to stop wishing you were a witch. Especially when you had done it for the majority of your life.

Annie agonized for the millionth time over her secret shame. Surely she couldn't be the only person in the world who had ever felt this way! Surely someone else longed to be something she could never be....

She came to the edge of the woods and stopped, breathing hard from exertion. The meadow that lay between her and her house was lit up by a bright, almost-full moon. To her right, lazy curls of smoke floated out from one of the many mismatched Burrow chimneys. Directly in front of her, Mole Hill itself quietly gleamed in the chilly silvery light, the rose bush cascading down one side like verdant tresses. She stood for several minutes, taking in the spellbinding beauty of her home.

Who the hell was she to wish for more than this?

Surely such a whiney, pathetic idiot as herself deserved a slap in the face for complaining about her idyllic life! Surely such an ungrateful prat as herself was entitled to a firm boot up the ass for failing to appreciate how wonderful things were! A devoted husband. Five healthy, intelligent, talented children. A supportive, active extended family around her always willing to help. A beautiful home. A fulfilling career.

She had to be the stupidest cow to ever come down the pike, she reckoned.

_I am not a witch_, she scolded herself, _and yet my life is more magical than I have any right to expect._

Annie closed her eyes. In her mind, she envisioned surgically removing the slimy, greenish-black rot of jealousy that threatened to spread like a cancer through her soul. She placed it on an imaginary pyre and held her breath as the toxic smoke from its ritual incineration blew away.

She knew it was not a permanent fix. This was not the sort of malady that had a once-and-for-all cure. But as long as she monitored it carefully, she could perhaps prevent it from consuming her, or tainting her relationships with her family.

As Annie approached the Hill from the moonlit meadow, she could see George's silhouette against the large window, searching as he waited for her. Of course he would be concerned for her; probably even had expected she would have needed a run to clear her head after the events of the evening. Thankfully, the physical effort had helped to straighten out her thoughts, and she was in a far better frame of mind when she reached the back door.

He was there, just inside, ready to greet her. "Feeling better now?" he asked softly.

Annie nodded. She appreciated that he understood how running was her way of dealing with emotional issues. How it was her time to think. He had gotten used to it, over the years.

"Ready to call it a night, then?" he asked, handing her a large glass of water.

She took it from him and nodded once more. She gulped the water until the glass was empty, then set it in the sink, to be dealt with tomorrow morning.

He took her hand and they walked upstairs together. Once inside their room, George began to undress for bed.

"I think I'll have a quick shower," Annie said softly, kicking off her trainers and tossing them into the closet.

George smiled slightly, thoughtfully, and nodded.

Annie rapidly washed the sweat from her body, letting the lukewarm water cool her heated muscles. The last of the tumultuous anxiety in her mind drained away with the water. She toweled off her body and hair, and took several deep, cleansing breaths.

She debated for a brief moment as she brushed her teeth, then decided not to dress in pajamas, anticipating George's likely intention. Whenever they had important discussions about their lives, they had a strange habit of making love first. Initially, she thought it odd – usually, one hears of make-up sex _after_ an argument, rather than before. However, over the years, Annie realized it made a sort of sense, for them. As if to remind them of what always remained the most important consideration: their love for one another.

Annie shut the light in the bathroom and crept into their bedroom. She was right – illuminated by moonlight, George was seated on the bed with his back against the headboard, sheet across his lap. And while she wasn't in the most romantic of moods at the moment, she knew it was important to him to make her feel loved, and it would help them both feel better. She climbed into his open and waiting arms, and turned her face up to receive his kiss.

George held Annie in his arms. Now that his mind was clear and heart was calm once more, he found could better deal with the issue at hand. He knew that she was still hurting, though. And would be for a while, regardless of what he said or did. Still, he couldn't just not do anything about it, could he?

"We were so jealous of you, you know," he said softly.

"George, stop it. I'm… I'll be fine. You don't have to do this," Annie replied, sighing patiently. Her body was draped along his, her head resting on his chest as he stroked her curls absently.

He knew she didn't believe him. She never did, when he tried to explain to her the reasons why he and his brother had been so devoted to her as children. He wasn't sure if it was due to her astonishing stubbornness to realize how incredibly wonderful she was, or simply the fact that she always thought he was teasing her about nearly everything – an understandable reaction, to be sure, considering the mountain of historical evidence.

"I'm serious!" he protested. "We used to imagine what it would be like to have someone else's undivided attention, like you with your Gran. To not get shoved around by everyone in the house bigger than we were. To not get stuck watching over everyone smaller. To consistently be addressed by your actual given name instead of someone else's, or a collective _Fredandgeorge_."

Annie chuckled, and he took it as an encouraging sign.

"You could go anywhere you liked without worrying someone might discover what you were. You never had to hide out every bloody day – at least, until I forced you to."

"George…" she said warningly. "That's not precisely true. And anyway, you know I have no regrets about that." She sighed. "Despite all the evidence to the contrary, this is where I belong."

He kissed the top of her head.

"It was heaven, for us – the tree fort. Spending time with you kept us sane, I reckon. We didn't have to hide from you. And you lived with all that amazing stuff in your house, yet you still managed to seem impressed by our stupid hocus-pocus crap.

"And you knew our bloody names! We would have followed you anywhere for that fact alone!"

"It was heaven for me, too," she agreed. Annie laughed quietly, as if she thought he was joking.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

"We missed you so much, when we were gone at school. D'you know, we used to talk about trying to sneak you into Hogwarts somehow. We had it all planned out: how we'd steal food from the kitchen and uniform robes from the laundry for you. How we'd show you all the cool things we'd found."

Annie lifted her head and smiled at him. She pulled his head closer and kissed him. "What a very typically sweet and stupidly reckless thing for you to do, love."

"Your letters kept me going while I was there. The knowledge that you still thought about us… that we were special in your eyes. All those long months away from home."

"Me, too," she whispered. "More than you'll ever know."

"Then, by some bloody miracle, I was the lucky git that caught your heart. And how did I thank you for it? Only in the most selfish way I could manage! I dragged you through an absolute shitstorm. Took away every safe and reasonable thing you grew up with and plunged you into a fucking war. Painted a pretty target on your head while I was at it. All because I couldn't bear to be without you."

Annie pressed her finger against his lips to hush him. He kissed her fingertip, then gently pulled it away.

"Without me, you would have gone to university, like Jane. Been brilliant at it, no question. Had your pick of every muggle bloke you met. You'd be married to some surgeon or scientist or young lord by now, the world at your feet, if it wasn't for my idiotic selfishness."

Annie shook her head. "All I can say is, thank God for your idiotic selfishness, then. I wouldn't wish that other misery on my worst enemy. I am exactly where I'm supposed to be. Where I want to be."

George clutched her tightly, clinging to his wife and pressing himself against her. "That's a relief. Because I can't live without you, Annie. Don't ever make me prove it."


End file.
